Portait of Pedro

“'Allo, how are you?”

The short, stocky, dark man in tee shirt and jogging bottoms approaches with his hand outstreched in greeting. You shake hands and look into his deep brown eyes. Something tells you this is more than just a social visit. ” I no want disturb you, but I see you there and I come to say that I put my caravan here.” He indicates a spot between your van and the lovely view of the lake. “Usually I stay here, but I respect that you here, so I go here.” Indicating a site just to one side of the view. He scrutinises you from out of the side of his eyes, waiting for a response. “My name is Pedro”, he says. You tell him your name and say that you really don't mind where he goes, but it is nice of him to come and tell you where he is going.

“You real English?”, he says. “I mean from England, or Scotland maybe. I spend much time in England – Stratford on Avon, Surrey.... “ You have him marked down as a waiter. “ I was ship's master”, he announces. “My father worked at Oceanography Centre in Portsmouth.” So that's how Pedro speaks such good English.

He's pleasant enough, and his wife looks very nice. She stays in the background. Encouraged that he is not after anything, or trying to sell you something, you make the mistake of saying how much you like Portugal. Pedro is off. This is his big chance to impress you with his English and expound his outlook on life. He is sad because Portugal is no good anymore. The country is going to the dogs. No-one cares, young people are only interested in computers, loud music and cars. Then there are the immigrants. Oh-oh. Alarm bells start to ring as he tells you how the cities are being taken over by black people from Angola, Mozambique and Brazil. He reserves his special contempt for Brazilian immigrants, his mouth curling into a particularly cruel sneer. Mind you, he is no racist – sensing your unease with the way the conversation is going. He changes the subject and asks where you have been and when you say, he snorts scornfully – he knows the best camp sites, cheap, very clean and in the most beautiful parts of the country. He draws a route map in the back of your sudoku book. “You go here, and here”. He draws a shaky line. “You no go there, I don't like this place. You come to a circle (roundabout). You no go first road, no go second road, you go third road. Look for a white wall and a supermarket.” And so on, littering the page with squiggles. But he does seem to know a lot of good campsites. After about an hour he announces that he has to go and eat. Therese has been gesturing to him from behind the motorhome in exasperation for half an hour at least.

Pedro knows everything there is to know about everything. He is opinionated, arrogant and bigoted. He isn't interested in your views. He runs his country down, yet is intensely proud of it. You meet his like in every country, on every train journey and in every bar.

Next morning Pedro emerges from his van late. “How is it going? Everything OK?” he says. When you say yes, everything is OK, he says gloomily “Not for me. I have problem with my bomb in the night.” This worries you – perhaps he is a closet terrorist. But it's all right. It turns out he means his pump. There is water in the motorhome. He has the broken valve in his hand. “I go to see if the old English guy has a spare part for my pump.” Pointing to a similar motorhome 100 metres away. Off he goes, and stays for at least an hour. Snatches of Pedro waft over on the breeze, “I don't go out at night because it's dangerous...... I respect Margaret Thatcher. I admire the British – they know how to get things done....”

You are leaving tomorrow.